Not Your Typical Coffee Shop AU
by WhenYouPartyNaked
Summary: Read the title.
1. Chapter 1

I've decided that my life has become a string of freely interspersed one-liners. For example: "Long distance isn't for me anymore." Or "Corporate called, and cuts have to be made on the part-time level." Or best yet, the crème de le crème of all life-altering statements: "We're sorry to inform you that your re-admittance to Pennsylvania State University…."

Now, you're probably wondering how someone of my age could recover from such devastation. How does Santana Lopez, recently dumped, recently let-go, recent college dropout, prevail?

Great question.

I'll let you know if I ever figure this shit out.

In the meantime, I stroll through downtown Philadelphia in search of employment. It's wild just how few places are hiring. Yeah, there's always the local MegaMart, but who much feels like catering to the general public? There's even serving or hosting at one of the many C-grade restaurants that plague this city, but the turnover rate just isn't worth the time. _Panhandling it is_ , I jokingly consider, the true irony being that my life has become one massive joke, and my eventual plummet into the bottommost realm of society is its grotesque punchline.

But I digress. Eventually, a "Now Hiring" sign draws me into The Beanery, a decently-sized coffee shop on the corner of Emerson and Eagle's Landing. A few strokes of the pen and I'm applied. A quick meet-and-greet with the store manager and I'm hired. Easy as one, two, three. Desperation is a beautiful phenomenon.

Brown on black is the shop's standard attire. Bring a smile and a can-do attitude and you won't have any trouble navigating the rocky waters that are customer service. It's the same spiel you hear in any training seminar, the only kicker being that our group of three "resembles a literal pile of shit bigger than what this job could possibly entail". Puck, the new-hire to my right's words, not mine.

"What brings you to the esteemed Beanery?" he asks me one day, as I filter new grounds into the vat of much older ones.

"An education system pitted against anyone born without a six-figure trust fund," I grumble. "You?"

He lifts the container from which I work. It clicks into place. Voila, medium roast Turkish blend is ready for the brewing. "Girlfriend wants a place of our own. She's tired of living in my mom's upstairs annex."

"Females," I mumble.

He sighs in agreement, and we go on in silence. This is the way it continues over the course of our first week. Puck, which I learn is short for his last name, Puckerman, and I often make small talk. We chit chat about life's ups, downs, and everything in between. Like two prisoners with sentences long and far, we maneuver through our shifts with steadfast trepidation.

That is, until one particular morning. We're opening up shop as usual—configuring the registers, prepping inventory, setting tables—when our first customer arrives. It's nothing out of the ordinary, as there is always at least one person who walks through the doors just as Puck unlocks them. This morning, it's a blonde who orders our cheapest drink and settles into a corner booth.

The hours practically crawl by; disgruntled members of the general public come and go. The blonde, however, she remains. She remains in such a way that is utterly inconspicuous. But every so often, she'll mosey along to our free-standing products cart (where customers can doctor up their beverages), grab a handful of sugar packets, and sit back down. Some make it into her cup, the others elsewhere. Occasionally, she'll go for the dry creamers. Sometimes, she'll splurge for napkins. All of which fit comfortably into the crooks of a black backpack she totes around.

I eventually channel Puck's attention to the situation, and we watch in silence. The charade goes on for the better part of two hours, both of us admiring the girl with detached reservation.

"Are you going to say anything?" I whisper from behind the counter.

"Not if you don't," he dismisses. "Real shame, though. Always the hot ones who do the weird shit."

We both chuckle. Puck smacks my arm just in time to watch our culprit emerge from the bathroom. Her backpack has since taken on some size, a bulge protruding at odd angles. And then, just through the crack where it won't quite zip, I see what resembles a roll of white. _Toilet paper? Who steals toilet paper?_

A while later, the same girl drops her cup off for a refill. She happily shells out the fifty cent fee. Whereas our policy is to call the customer's name, allow them to retrieve their product, and call it a day, I volunteer myself for a quick delivery. Puck eyes me suspiciously, but I give him a reassuring nod.

The girl looks bewildered to see me approach her table. Like a deer in the headlights, she plays it coy as I place her drink on metal tabletop. Moments later, I slide into the booth.

"My manager's going to be here in about thirty minutes," I say coolly. "He pays far more attention than I and my coworker."

She appears to mull over my offer. Not too concerned, if I may add, considering that she still sits, sipping from her coffee. Everything about her seems too cocky. Too self-assured. Part of me wishes I hadn't said anything, let Greg catch her stealing, and watched her ass go down.

Regardless of all personal wishes, the blonde eventually responds. She reacts simply by standing, grabbing her bag, and tossing it over her shoulder. The coffee cup is lifted once more before reaching its final destination, an area that I will soon have to wipe down. Then, without missing so much as a beat, she leans over and smugly whispers, "See you tomorrow."

* * *

Ever since that morning, work continues as such throughout the week. The girl shows up like clockwork, cleans the place out, and vamps before Greg rolls around. Puck and I have each held true to our respective vows of silence, mostly because minimum wage isn't enough to further confront those committing harmless crimes, but also due to the blonde's general appeal. She's a rebel in her own respect, and it's quite entertaining to play into.

Come Sunday evening, I'm grateful to have the following two days off. Puck and I wish each other well, and I make the short drive back to my apartment building. The floor above mine is a complete dead zone. No blaring music, no yelling, and no random pops that may or may not be gunfire. Tonight is a good night.

A short-lived mentality, I'll admit, once I reach the second floor. Not because the McClann's dogs go absolutely ape shit at the sound of my footsteps, either, but because the handle to my door appears to be stuck. Again. I give it the usual lift-and-nudge. Nothing. Once more for good measure. Nada.

That's when it catches my eye.

The little pink slip nudged in the door's crevice.

 _Notice of eviction: as a matter of two months' overdue rent, Apartment 783 will be placed under the jurisdiction of building management. The tenant has seventy-two hours to comply with complex regulations, or all items within will be forfeited._

My heart sinks just a little bit. In fact, I'm less compelled to cry than I am to punch the door, secretly hoping that with enough force, I'll be able to jar the wooden frame.

Considering the time, there's no use in attempting to argue my case with the main office. There's always the option of waiting outside until morning, but that would mean running the risk of coming face-to-face with the groundskeeper, Leonard. He still hasn't forgiven me for last year's tulip incident.

I decide not to fight it. Not tonight, at least. So as I saddle up in the car, gauging just how comfortable it might be to live in, I break out my phone and Google the nearest bar.

* * *

The counter is cold and swollen as wood does when drenched one too many times. Dim lights do well to hide the room's eerie demeanor. Smoke creeps along and billows from the walls. This appears to be either where hope goes to die, or where the hopeless somehow reside.

Light from my phone screen illuminates the immediate area. More unimpressive are the numbers it displays. Or lack thereof, considering they are but a small portion of the extremely underwhelming entity that is my bank account.

"Seems like we can't get enough of each other in the workplace," a voice soon rings out, breaking my trance.

I look up to find none other than the thieving blonde bearing her signature smile.

"Yeah, I was just stopping by to see if you had any sugar packets to spare," I quip.

Her grin subsides. "What'll you have?"

"Whatever's most inexpensive?"

"Glass of water and a high five?" she returns, now chuckling.

I sit and wait, trying to stare down whatever is left of her snark. There's always a time and a place for playful or witty banter, but being newly homeless has drained me of any sense of humor. "Beer," I eventually give.

We exchange nothing more as I pull from bottle after bottle. I occasionally steal a glance as she bounces between patrons, charming her way into a dollar or two more. Her efforts are fruitful, I'll admit. The way she flutters her eyes in the middle of seamless conversation. How gracefully she dances behind the bar. I'm a captivated audience, even if the one-woman-show has no intention of entertaining.

By the time last call comes around, my brain is far too muddled for anymore wallowing. I grip onto the counter, leveraging my weight back then forth to heave a leg from the barstool. The problem is, someone begins blocking me from behind. The blonde bartender, to be exact.

"Any chance you're not okay?" she asks, sounding somewhat genuine. "No one ever sticks around here until close unless shit's seriously terrible."

I peer around. She's right. This place is a graveyard. "Yeah."

"Yeah, you _are_ okay?" she continues. "Or yeah, shit's terrible?"

"Yeah," I say again.

Typically, being a deadbeat conversationalist is enough to kill anyone's interest quickly. I've often used the same tactic for when guys come around, insistent on bagging the lesbian. But the blonde is a persistent one. In fact, she goes as far to take my arm and lead me outside. I think I'm simply being kicked out of the bar, something I haven't done since sophomore year, but she helps me to the curb. We sit side by side. She waits before saying, "Go ahead. Spill."

I'm hesitant, but also very drunk. And not drunk in the typical sense, but I'm also holding on to the earth as not fall off of it. I'm pissed off. I'm tired. I'm tired of being pissed off.

And so it goes, I fear. I sit, I ramble. She sits, she listens. She'll occasionally nod as to let me know that she's still paying attention. It's actually quite pleasant, being heard, and it's enough to make me begin questioning her further. Her motives, what she's capable of.

"Can I ask a favor?" is how our wondrous conversation comes to its end.

"Depends."

"I may or may not need some help breaking into my apartment."

Almost instantly, the girl rises from our spot. I'm convinced that I've scared away with such a rash proposition, as she bolts inside the now-closed bar. _Just fucking marvelous_ , I think, up until she reemerges, holding a crowbar. I'm caught up the confusion of it all, but then she beelines for my car.

"Keys," she demands.

I willingly comply, unsure of what exactly is about to occur, but with a pretty firm understanding of who it was brought on by. And before I'm giving any more time to weigh the pros versus all of their consequences, I'm mindlessly rattling off my address to the strange girl.

* * *

As it turns out, aside from swiping decorative goods, the blonde is a master of breaking and entering. That's what I gather from the crowbar she finagles into the doorframe's wedge. It's a simple procedure—one nudge, two, three, four—and a hunk of wood flies free.

Over the course of the next half hour, we shove random belongings into what's left of my trash bag supply. The essentials, of course, and then a few other amenities. A single trip down both flights of stairs, then we're lingering outside my car once again. The blonde folds her arms atop the vehicle's roof, cocks her head, and grins slyly. "Where to now?" she cheerfully offers, as if it's not already three in the goddamn morning.

I bite my lip, teetering from the alcohol's last few effects. The adrenaline of breaking into your own home works great as a sobering agent. "Didn't think this far ahead."

The girl chuckles, opening the driver's side door. I follow her lead, unsure of what's to come until she casually mentions, "Seems like I owe you this one then."

It's roughly ten minutes before we pull into a neighborhood that makes my apartment complex look like the Hilton. Seriously, every other house has a car on blocks. Yards consist of weird amalgamations of either weeds, dirt, or dirty weeds. The homes are in lesser-than condition, but as I've already established—being a person currently without one makes me less inclined to judge another's.

My car is ushered up a driveway and into a carport. The blonde quickly tosses a mud-ridden tarp over its top. She then fiddles with at least three different locks, nudges her door with the same verve as breaking through mine, and shuts it tightly behind us.

A quick survey of the house yields multiple observations: it's small, cluttered, and could use some serious renovation. Dishes litter the countertops, few decorations cover the walls. The door has led us into the kitchen, but just across the way, the living room appears to have suffered a similar neglected fate. I pander around, waiting for the blonde to lead the way once more.

She does, first by venturing to the fridge for two longneck bottles. I don't think that consuming anymore alcohol is in my best interest, but I find myself more comforted by the gesture than, say, having a weapon pulled. The girl smiles after popping both caps, pulling from hers feverishly. I do the same. It's the cheap stuff, even more decrepit than what I had at the bar.

"So," she eventually says, as if our evening has been one long, drawn out conversation. "Your girlfriend decided that commuting from Ohio to Pennsylvania wasn't enough to keep your relationship afloat, your college decided that your overall lack of discipline wasn't enough to keep your education afloat, and your renters have decided that your overall lack of funds wasn't worth keeping your lifestyle afloat."

"If you put it that way," I joke.

She shrugs. "Just trying to figure out if there's anything else I need to know beforehand."

"Before what?" I ask, taking a seat at the laundry-covered heap I assume to be the dinner table.

She rubs the rim of her bottle, teasing its edges. I'm not paying much attention, at least not until she haphazardly offers, "Before we fuck."

I choke on the beer mid-swallow. "That wasn't—" I stammer over each individual syllable. "I don't—"

Slender legs suddenly work their way across the tile floor, and one soon drapes over my pressed thighs. My mouth feels as though I've swallowed a ball of cotton. More so as two lips perch themselves atop my cheek. Then as they begin working downward toward the base of my neck. Back upward—she takes a moment to move a string of my hair—to that area just below my ear.

"You don't what?" she asks in barely above a whisper. That same sultry tone from our first encounter at the shop.

I groan. Where is this coming from? Why is she playing so far out of left field? Is this a "thank you" fuck? Is it pity fuck? Should I push her away and insist that I've just been trying to fly the straight-and-narrow? That in no way has this evening meant that we have to have sex? I honestly didn't even realize that the girl was gay.

All rationale flies out the goddamn window when she takes one of my hands and drags it under her shirt and up the expanse of her back. This is probably the worst idea in the history of ideas, or at least in the last five hours, but _God_. _When she forces her body down into mine. The firmness of each individual muscle that grazes against my own. The softness that offsets just how rough everything else is._ It's nothing specific, but it's everything right now.

"Don't know what I was thinking," is all I can work to choke out.

Instinct forces my body into overdrive, and before I'm fully aware, our pair is floating through the air. Seconds later, we're crashing atop the kitchen table, sending a pile of shirts to the ground. I force my lips to hers, and she returns with equal energy. We're pawing, clawing, grabbing at each other, working at the nearest articles of clothing. I'm down to my bra before I can still her hands, beginning to inch my way downward.

I hadn't realized what the girl was wearing until in one fell swoop, I'm able to remove her underwear. With the help of the world's most miniature skirt, of course. She aides my efforts, and just as I'm able to make her bottommost half vulnerable, keen on burying my face in between the fabric surrounding her thighs, a sly finger presses the expanse between my eyes. "Down the hall, first room on the left."

"Is that a new move, or?" I stumble over the words.

Her legs are no longer propped up by the time I blink. She smiles mischievously, then drags me by the hand into the darkness.

Hours later, with the sweat, exhaust, and pure elation of the evening weighing down on me, I melt into the mattress beside a girl whose name I do not know. I listen to her breathing, how calmly it rises and falls. And then, in the midst of it all, I try to consider what in the hell I'm doing. Am I being impulsive? Am I being crass? Have I reached the end of my rope?

I don't know this girl. I have no clue of who she is, where she comes from, or what she's capable of. She's been a mystery since the beginning, and there's no telling what she'll be tomorrow morning. Maybe she's a secret wrapped up in something a lot more, and maybe I'm in for much more than I've imagined. After all, there is no telling why a girl like her would need a house like this all to herself.


	2. Chapter 2

We keep the charade going throughout the week. I usually dip out of the blonde's place mid-morning, head off to The Beanery, shoot the shit with Puck, and meet up again with the girl later on. She drives the both of us to her house after last call. Wash, rinse, repeat.

I've got quite a few errands to run once Saturday comes around. First comes making an appearance at my old apartment complex's main office. Per the brief, yet informative message I woke up to yesterday, they're sparing anyone the trouble of trying to sell my shit. That is, unless I can come up with the past two months' rent.

Looks like the newest line of Santana Lopez's Undesirables will be coming shortly to a thrift store near you.

Second comes my impending fight with Pennsylvania State University's bursar's office. I can hear it now: " _No money, no schooling. No schooling, no money."_ Funny how that cycle plays out.

Lastly lies the issue or maybe of maybe not phoning my parents to break the most recent news. That'll simply depend on what I decide to have for lunch, and if tasting it twice appeals at all to my taste buds.

There's a loud clang from down the hall. The blonde has since vacated our shared bed, so I take a moment to stretch all the way out, soaking in the wonder that an off-day has to offer. The clanging ensues.

"I think I'm pregnant," someone practically shouts.

"You're a thirteen-year-old boy," another argues back.

"So?"

"So that means you still have to go to school on Monday."

"What about me?" someone else chimes.

"Eat. Now."

I round the corner to find the blonde working her way around the kitchen. She dons a small towel in the waistline of her shorts, and she's busily scooping heaps of yellow onto paper plates. One pair of little hands comes to collect, then another, and then a third. I catch a glimpse of a sizeable teenager—a refrigerator with legs, more specifically—who falls last in line before I dare to step out.

The blonde meets me with a smile. "Hungry?"

I shake my head. Instead, I continue surveying the area. It's been so dark every night we've come home that I haven't even gotten the chance to peruse. Like the well-worn kitchen table that's littered with young ones. Where their eyes don't bother lifting from to size up that who intrudes their home. _No wonder she wanted to move to the bedroom so quickly_ is all I can think.

"Everyone, this is—" the blonde begins, eyes shifting to me for answer.

"Santana," I give.

"Santana," she continues confidently, "and she'll be staying with us until she's back on her feet." Her blue eyes suddenly meet mine. "Santana, this is everyone."

I don't bother with being cordial as no one hints at doing the same. The blonde and I shovel coffee down our throats in silence (sugar packets and dry creamer compliments of The Beanery). The three youngest, who all appear to be the same age, argue over menial matters. Who gets dibs on the television first and what have you. The refrigerator, donning his navy blue-on-black and work boots, watches them fondly, only ever chiming in to help settle a dispute.

Once all's said and done, the breakfast-goers disperse. Just as rapidly, the Refrigerator grabs all attention with his booming voice. "Rent's due Tuesday, guys. Hundred bucks a head. You know the drill." He reaches for a coat hanging by the back door. "Two for anyone over eighteen."

"But I—" I hesitate.

"Be glad we don't charge by the night," he effectively snaps, paying me the most attention of anyone this morning. Jay, as his work shirt embroidery reads, then grabs the blonde and places a kiss to her temple before venturing through the back door.

* * *

I'm upstairs and shoving whatever I can into a duffel bag when the sounds of footsteps break my trance. An arm snakes its way underneath my own two as they work feverishly to get the hell out of this place. "Didn't tell me you had a full house," I mumble when the girl refuses to move.

"If memory serves, we didn't bother exchanging names until this morning," she breathes into the back of my neck. I force myself free, to which the blonde extends her hand. "The name's Bethany Parrish."

There's yet another crash from what sounds like the kitchen, maybe a bit further away, and Bethany rolls her eyes. She then cranes her head through the bedroom door and shouts something unintelligible. "Catch you later?" she asks, now distracted.

"Listen," I begin, tossing the bag over my shoulder. "I'd rather not do the whole 'permanent fixture' thing. You know how kids can be. They're impressionable."

She purses her lips, eyes softened yet hard. She even smiles. "I'll tell you what: me and the kids are taking a field trip this afternoon, while Jay's out at work. How about you go take care of your business, and try meeting us back here around one?"

It's a compelling offer as any, though I was just a mere four seconds away from bailing. _What's the worst that can happen?_ I think without regard. _I get to spend a few more minutes with this cryptic, yet fascinating girl?_ It's not like I have much else going on. Besides, there are far worse places to be. You know, like nowhere, which is still all that I have.

I eventually nod.

Bethany does, too, and goes to leave. But not before poking her head in a final time to say, "Oh, and Santana? Bring your running shoes."

* * *

It's a wonder I ever find the Parrish house later on that afternoon, but the slew of bicycles and water guns serve as a dead giveaway. I park under the carport per usual, and take the liberty of covering my car as not to suffer the same fate as vehicles around here. Hubcaps are important, after all.

Inside, everyone hustles back and forth from living room to kitchen. They tote buckets, piles of paper, and a huge rectangle of fabric toward the back door. In bold letters, 'A-P-S-C-A' brandishes the latter's front.

"What's 'APSCA'?" I dare to ask.

The bustling ceases immediately. One of the youngsters, a girl with hair as blonde as Bethany's, scowls. "What the hell, Quitt?"

The scrawnier of the two boys shrugs. "Double meaning?"

"It'll look like we're campaigning for sick animals _and_ dyslexic preteens," the other jokes.

Bethany begins clapping wildly. "Katherine, Quitt, Smith." The banter stops. "Grab your gear. Rush is about to start."

Thus ensues the trek to the more upscale version of downtown Philadelphia. I initially offer to drive, but everyone quickly declines. They insist that we travel by foot. So, within the hour, we're amidst the masses of mid-weekend shoppers. Blending in is no problem, and the three youngest take turns standing on Bethany's shoulders to hang the banner on a nearby fence post.

"What exactly is all of this about?" I manage to squeeze in amongst the chaos.

"This is the kids' contribution to our devout familial stance against homelessness."

And before I can inquire as to what in the hell that means, the children attack the sidewalk. They busy themselves with handing out the piles of paper one by one, collecting spare change and billsin their buckets all the while. They approach strangers, spiels about sickly puppies at the ready. Katherine even goes as far as shedding a tear or two.

I'm highly impressed by their work ethic, especially considering that everyone I've ever met at their age had been waited on hand and foot since birth. They're convincing, even, as avid proponents on the war against animal cruelty. The boy I assume to be Smith speaks eloquently, with a certain relaxed zeal to his demeanor. Quitt merely rambles on, smiling dumbly all the while. And Katherine, she speaks with the fire of a thousand suns.

Not once does Bethany interrupt their efforts. In fact, she merely stands off to the side, providing a protective watch over the group. Me, I attempt to do the same, though I am more so awestruck than I am being anything else.

Perceptive being one of those things, evidently. Because about midway through, I notice Bethany's weight begin shifting about. She pokes her head around suspiciously, obviously catching wind of something that had long since escaped my visual grasp.

I'm about to get down to the bottom of things when a crisp five dollar bill is thrust into my hand. "Grab me a soda, will you?"

I nod, happy to oblige. "Kids want anything?"

"They're fine. Just take your time with it."

I step inside a nearby convenience store, now crumpled bills in hand, and search for something fruity. Bethany strikes me as the faux-fruity type. There are so many different colored sodas—raspberry, orange, grape, the list goes on—and I can't pinpoint which she might prefer. Honestly, I can't quite figure out why it matters so much to begin with.

I finally decide on lemon, because yellow reminds me of the girl's personality. The cashier haphazardly accepts my money and delivers me change. I linger for a moment, realizing just how much I've been enjoying my day with this group. Here we are, out doing some good for a charitable organization. I may have found something actually worth pursuing; something worthwhile, at least.

The table is buzzing with life when I return, but something suddenly feels left out. Where are the buckets? The flyers? Where is that goddamn unreadable sign?

My mood instantly hardens, and I start to worry that maybe I've wandered a bit too far off from our original post. I worry up until approaching what I once swore was our collection area—the spot under the shade tree; the one with the funny-looking rock? I worry when a group of middle-aged men and women turn their attention toward me, I worry when their questioning becomes awfully pointed, and I worry when terms like "charges", "fraud", and "solicitation" are suddenly dropped.

I worry up until the sounds of quickened footsteps begin to wither away and a blonde ponytail disappears around the corner. I worry up until that very moment, and when what's just happened finally dawns upon me, I know better than to worry anymore.

* * *

"And you're sure that you don't recognize this person?"

I'm now positioned in a dingy foldout chair, staring at yet another picture of Bethany. In her defense, they're not exactly crystal clear images, so my vague truthfulness can't be taken at full dishonesty. Besides, the Chateau LeView Community Outreach Board of Directors is not nearly as intimidating as say, the police.

"I'm sure," I mumble for the third time.

"You didn't just spend the past few hours with her," the most esteemed woman of the group asks, "camped out in front of this convenience store, _begging_ for money?"

I fold my arms. "Those _donations_ were earned, fair and square."

Another well-dressed gentleman moves to chime in, but the woman, their apparent leader, holds up a silencing hand. Her gaze shifts back to me, the blue on her lids piercing. "It's called fraudulent behavior, ma'am, _not_ hard work. And considering that this area is part of our neighborhood restoration initiative, we must ask that the buck stops here."

"Or?" I entertain.

"Or the authorities will have to be involved," she answers matter-of-factly. I nod in understanding, as our exchange is beginning to draw a bit of local passerby attention. The group falls silent thereafter. Everyone twiddles their fingers for a few seconds more, and then El Capitan herself retrieves a small sliver of cardboard from her purse. "Should you ever come across this mysterious character, or should you have any questions regarding our recent conversation, don't hesitate to call."

I lazily salute because it feels right. I wave as the gaggle of elders disperses. And then I peruse the business card really quickly, most likely as a precursor to a potential problem. It's amusing to think that anyone would actually consider themselves the C.E.O. of a community outreach program. Or that they would have a very specific card printed up on a very specific shade of periwinkle, just so the world will know.

But if I must say, the crowning jewel of this afternoon has not been the alleged phony charity drive, being ditched by a group of charitable posers, or being accused of partaking in the aforementioned by a group of strangers.

No, what's most topped today off is the question that now lingers in the back of my head. Because if I just met Bethany Parrish, _then whose bed have I been sharing for the past week?_

* * *

The travel by foot is still a lengthy one, but pure anger and aggravation do well as a motivator to move as quickly as possible.

"Your name isn't Bethany," I say with zero hesitation, bursting through the door that I've spent the past week tip-toeing through.

The blonde, or Bethany, or who I thought was Bethany, frowns. "Which means you tried to snitch."

"Do what?" I snap, feeling the swell of heat again rush to my face. The business card from before is still in my pocket, and it takes everything I have not to fling it in her face. "No, I didn't. And I would never do so, which should've been obvious since the first time we met."

She shrugs as though it's nothing. "Never can be too careful."

"You mean like inviting a stranger to sleep in the home that you share with your—"

"Siblings," the girl nonchalantly finishes. "And it's not them that I'm worried about. I've seen those kids take down more than you with pliers and the right attitude."

I pause, not doubting her words for a minute. "It just—" I then take another moment to consider what grounds I, or anyone else, are fighting on here.

 _I've known this girl for roughly eight days. We've done nothing but drink, talk, and fuck every evening. Come dawn, we're practically strangers. We owe each other absolutely nothing. SO WHY IN FUCK'S NAME DO I FEEL SO BETRAYED?_

"Can I at least know your real name?" is how the anguish translates.

The girl appears to mull over my request, but is instead interrupted by Jay's sudden entrance. He looks less than enthused to see me, but more so exhausted by whatever his job recently entailed.

"Store run," the elder says, peeling a small wad of bill from her pocket. "Beer and food. No extras."

"Rent covered?" he asks, accepting the request.

She nods. "Fished it out today."

"Any trouble?"

"Got out before anything could pop off."

I cough rather obnoxiously. " _Some_ of us did."

Jay sarcastically cocks an eyebrow my way. He waits, seemingly torn between ripping my head off and patting my back. "It's called popping your cherry," the guy eventually gives. "So tonight, we celebrate on your behalf."

* * *

We crack open a few cold ones and turn the music up. The neighbor to the backmost portion of their property yells, Jay yells back a bit more loudly, and then nothing more is said.

"What's her real name?" I ask once not-Bethany ventures back inside for another beer. Jay's decided to smoke on a C-grade joint he scored at work today, and I feel a bit adventurous when his hand extends my way.

"Not my information to disclose," he grunts.

Maybe a bit too adventurous.

"Why would she lie about it?" I pry.

He pulls from the partially-bent cigarette, holds the smoke, and then exhales. "Why would you have sex with someone for an entire week and not bother to know anything about them?"

"Because her life is in shambles," one of the young kids, Smith, says in coming outside. "Just think about it."

"Already have," Jay says.

"So we agree?"

"We do. It's pathetic."

I'm about to pull another purposeful cough when they both crack a smile. And then they bellow out in laughter. "We're just fucking with you, dude," the boys manage in unison.

The blonde is back outside and parked on my lap shortly thereafter. It's a good time, shooting the bull with her family. We sit and talk about the day's undertakings, they explain the concept of "fishing"—conning the more well-off yuppies of this town into forking over their hard-earned cash. It's a worthwhile venture, as they explain. You know, in between laughing at the expense of my sheer naivety.

"Sorry about throwing you to the wolves," not-Bethany eventually says. "In all fairness, it was Katherine's idea."

"Think of it as a reverse trust fall," Katherine chimes through a mouthful of burger. "Had to see if you'd bend or break."

Quitt nods at his sister's statement. "Especially if you're going to be our new mom and all."

I feel myself freeze all over. My mouth falls dry. I forget how words are meant to function. "That's—"

A final time, cue the hysterical laughter.

By night's end, I've been the butt of roughly eighty-seven percent of their jokes. The dynamic of their conversations is apparently structured that way. One sibling sets everything up, another brings it home. Not-Bethany just stays perched atop my lap, putting back longnecks and cutting up with everyone else.

We retire somewhere around three o'clock. I follow the blonde by her outstretched hand throughout the house, bobbing and weaving amidst the shoes, toys, and piles of clothes. Jay stares on from the kitchen, so I excuse myself as not-Bethany finishes stumbling down the hall. After the _thunk_ of the mattress sounds, I know it's safe to chat.

"You're not the first person she's brought home, you know," he begins, arms folded as he leans back against the counter. "And you probably won't be the last."

"Okay," I say, trying to hold back from showing any genuine emotion.

"She'll get tired of you," he continues, "and she'll quit coming around."

"Okay."

"So don't get too comfortable, okay? For your sake, and for everyone else's."

I nod, trying to end the conversation as quickly as possible. The words sting, but not as much as they could. It's not as though we're doing anything more serious than fooling around. In fact, ever there was a nigh where didn't have sex, I'd feel like nothing more than a squatter.

 _All of this is extremely temporary_ , I remind myself.

And I carry this thought to the bedroom. She burrows into my chest as I crawl under the covers. She holds on tightly with nimble arms, just as she typically does. There's a heavy sigh that's then followed by incoherent mumbling.

"Huh?" I give, body and mind too heavy for much more.

The girl then breathes deeply a final time, buries her face into the nape of where chest meets neck, and says, "Brittany. My name's Brittany."


End file.
